


The Goblet of Purgatory

by Shadow_Of_Castiel



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angels, Gen, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Religious Themes & References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-29
Updated: 2010-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:03:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadow_Of_Castiel/pseuds/Shadow_Of_Castiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Angel of Death is on a mission to find one of his possessions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Goblet of Purgatory

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first original fic I've written in at least three years, and am very pleased with how it turned out!
> 
> ETA: Now included in a book with eleven other stories, on sale now [HERE](http://www.unibook.com/en/Sarah-S-Hastings/The-Angels-of-Justice-\(and-other-short-tales-of-angels\)) if anyone would like to read more.

I strode through the darkened recesses of the church, the coolness of the building’s interior offering an unnecessary respite from the sun and the dust of the desert air outside. I ignored the odd parishioner sitting in the pews, silent, thoughtful, some even praying. I doubted they even saw me or knew I was there; those that did pay heed probably assumed I was a worshipper just like them.

I snorted, sighed and thought that I could not be accused of being like any of them. I was not the type to be a church-goer. After all, I had no need to attend sermons held by bleating priests who had no real clue or understanding as to the true meaning of what they preached. I knew that if they saw even half of what I’d seen in my existence, they would have run screaming for the hills long ago.

I stopped by the lectern, marvelling at the eagle embossed in high relief upon the wooden surface, fingers tracing the beautifully carved wings. A rare smile crossed my face at the sight; the work was truly beautiful, marvellous actually. There had been more love and care taken in that one piece of near-perfect artwork than I’d seen in humanity for many a decade. I turned away, a little disillusioned by dark thoughts threatening to cloud my mind and its purpose. I didn’t want to became distracted from that which I had come here for. At my age, it was all to easy to become distracted by the smallest of things, the most simple of wonders.

I crossed the front of the church, heading for a small door tucked out of sight upon the far wall, dark wood in direct contrast with the red-turning-to-pink sandstone walls surrounding us. I doubted if anyone else had even bothered to wonder at the purpose of this door, if they’d even taken the time to notice it. Humans are a notorious lot at not seeing that which was directly in front of them, preferring instead to turn a blind eye when it was all too easy to do so.

I reached out a hand to grasp the door knob solidly, intending to twist it to the side and to make the door swing open for me. A heavy hand fell upon my arm, restricting my movements superficially. It would have been hard for a human to fully restrain one such as I.

“I’m afraid you can’t go in there, sir,” the voice at my side demanded, all officiousness and righteous anger directed upon me.

I turned to stare at the figure beside me, taking in the small form, ineffectual, easily snuffed out with the merest thought if I so wished. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t killed before; I had, plenty of times. It was kind of in my job detail to take lives.

For the briefest of instants, I let the priest glimpse who I really was behind the fake mask of humanity and the man fell back, one arm raised as though to protect himself from that which stood before him. I could only guess at what he saw in that one brief moment, all too familiar with second-hand reactions from others by now rather than seeing myself firsthand. Where I came from, everyone looked like me, caught halfway between monstrosity and true beauty, winged beings that defied all description yet still had a name - or more aptly, several, dependant on the rank.

“My God, man, what are you?” he cried, fear evident in his tone as he fell to a crouch before me.

He tugged on my robes, hands bunching in the hem and threatening to tug me down to the ground with him. I was more concerned about him dislodging the scythe bundled in the cord wrapped around my waist rather than the man making a show of himself, which he undoubtedly was. I bent, and grabbed the grovelling priest by the scruff of his shirt and dragged him to his feet forcefully, plunging us both through the door he’d previously stopped me from entering before anyone could finally notice.

The door swung shut solidly behind us and I had the frightened father pinned to the wall. I peered down into his face, blinking down in surprise at this tiny little life, so puny yet totally devoid of the viciousness I’d seen displayed in humanity these days. This man was truly pious and served God with ever fiber of his being. I let him go and stepped away, knowing I had no right to touch this man, no reason to take his life. This man deserved to be saved.

“What are you?” the priest asked again. “You are not a demon. You would not be in a house of God if you were. This is Holy ground. “

“I know, Father. It’s kind of the reason why I’m here,” I said, wryly, deep voice bouncing slightly from the wall. “I am no demon. I am quite the opposite, actually.”

“You’re an angel,” the priest decreed, finally catching a clue to my true identity. “Which one are you? You’re not Michael?”

I smiled reverently at the mention of my brother, the Archangel Michael, fierce warrior of God. I had had the good fortune plenty of times to fight at his side, wielding flaming swords in battle and sharing simple, gentle times with the fierce warrior. I was also a silent witness amongst others when Lucifer was cast down and had stood at Michael’s side then. There wasn’t much that I hadn’t seen over the millennia since the world had begun.

“No, I’m not Michael. He is a brother of mine, however,” I said, with a reverent smile. “You may know me as Azrael.”

“The Angel of Death,” the priest intoned, voice turning from reverence to that blank state of fear that only the truly pious and genuinely scared attained. “My time has come, hasn’t it?”

“Not yet, child,” I said, as I dipped my head towards him. “You, I am pleased to say, have many a long year ahead of you. I cannot touch you - you are a good man and a pious one. I cannot harm a true man of God. Father Abraham however - “

My voice trailed off as I thought of the priest’s fellow comrade within the church’s walls. Father Abraham was not a pious man; in fact, he was quite the opposite. He’d lost his faith and taken solace in drink, gambling and small boys, sins of the flesh that had earned him a place upon my reaper’s blade. In his past was murder, passed off as an accident when a small boy under his tutelage had slipped and fell beneath Father Abraham’s drunken, flailing hand. The police had been called at the time, although nothing could ever be proved.

Now his past had caught up with him in the form of a faulty liver, finally giving up its diseased ghost. It was a kind of poetic justice, actually; a small boy dies while the Father is under the influence of Scotland’s finest drink, and it was the whiskey that killed the priest in the end.

“Abe? I know about his troubles, but why would they send you for him?” the priest asked, bringing me back from distracted reminiscences with a glare. “The angel of Death himself?”

He fell to his knees again and kissed my feet reverently, as though that one action alone could save his doubting, fallen brother. I eased him to his feet with a sigh, ethereal exhalation bouncing from the walls around us and creating echoes when there should have been none.

“Get to your feet, child,” I said, as I steered the priest further down the hallway and down the stairs to the basement that I knew ran beneath the church. “Father Abraham is not the only reason I am here today. He is merely an adjunct to my true purpose.”

“True purpose? There is more reason for you to be here?” the priest asked.

“Of course. I am an angel. I have an agenda. I believe you have a goblet within the church’s possession. It is very old, made of pure gold,” I prompted, eyes glinting in the darkness as I stared down at him with guarded interest.

The goblet I was interested in was otherwise known as the Goblet of Purgatory. It aided me in my job as the Angel of Death, alongside the more traditional scythe more commonly associated with the Grim Reaper of common myth. Ironically, I was more like the Reaper than Death himself and I knew the Horseman personally; in fact, he was a good friend of mine.

One thing that differentiated me from Death, other than my angelic nature naturally, was the Goblet of Purgatory. One draught from its golden surface and one’s soul departed the body, descending into purgatory to be expiated, cleansed free of all its sins before moving on. My scythe, on the other hand, was intended for those who knew where they were going, whether ascending to Heaven immediately, or descending into the arms of Lucifer himself.

The Goblet of Purgatory had been lost to me by the fumbling hands of the angel Anael, clumsy in her pursuits of curiosity. She’d been genuinely interested in the things I did and as big brother to her curious little sister status, I indulged her. All of the angels indulged the ever curious Anael with varying degrees of amusement.

I’d spent the intervening time between the Goblet’s loss and the present time looking for that item that aided me in my existence‘s work, chasing down rumors and half hearted fables in darkened, drunken alleyways, coming up short on all fronts.

It was surprising how such a small goblet could be hidden so effectively and ferried from place to place, sold and sold again through various means and multiple purchasers over the months. Only an angel’s patience could keep up with its progress and hope to still attain it. That goblet needed to be with its Master, before any more damage could be done. Too many people had chanced a draught from the Goblet of Purgatory and died before their natural time. The order of life and existence hung in the very balance.

Now it had turned up here, in the basement of a nondescript little church in the midst of the Nevada desert. I’d been put on the trail by an angel who’d alighted in Los Angeles, attracted to the quaintly named city and finding few other angels in the city named after us. I’d been there of course, doing my job as the angel of Death and reaping the souls necessary for the times.

I sighed and dragged my wandering mind back from times past, blinking back into dusty dank corridors, far beneath ground level. I hadn’t realised until then how small the corridor was, until I unfolded my wings and the tops of them brushed the ceiling in dragging eddies. I ignored the vague discomfort, and followed the priest before being finally led to the vault where the Goblet had been kept since its arrival in this little Nevada church.

“Azrael,” the priest said, enquiringly, yet said no more.

“Yes, child,” I replied, to prompt the man to continue.

“How do I know this goblet is really yours?” the priest asked, casting a frown upon me as though he truly doubted my word.

“Do not look through the doorways into doubt, Father,” I warned him. “You must know better than anyone else, that an angel cannot lie. Even Lucifer himself cannot lie, despite his current and ongoing situation.”

“You’re going to tell me that Lucifer is just misunderstood, aren’t you?” the priest said, with a dry chuckle.

“Oh, but he is,” I replied, but without the dry chuckle. “I was there when Lucifer was cast down with his minions. That will be a sight I will never forget. It happened to him, and it could happen to any one of us who disobey. I am a good son, but even I cannot escape my Father’s judgment if He’s given due cause. That is one reason I cannot lie to you. I am a soldier of God. My word is true.”

“Prove it,” the priest said, eyes narrowed at me.

I blinked at him, surprised at his audacity yet somehow expecting it too. Humanity these days seemingly couldn’t even take the word of an angel at face value without seeing the next magic trick performed before their eyes. I knew that mere magic tricks paled into insignificance against that which an angel could perform, which could only truly be described as a miracle. For one brief moment, I wondered how badly the priest would take it if I exposed such magical alumni like Criss Angel to be a charlatan.

“As you wish, Father Thomas,” I said, with a dip of my head as I used the Priest’s name.

“I did not tell you my name,” the priest said, with some surprise.

“I am Azrael. I know everyone’s names and their judgment day,” I said without humor. “I already told you that you were not ready for me yet. Now give me that goblet and I will prove my words to be true.”

I stood there, wings spread out behind me, large hand dipped down towards the Father standing before me. I waited patiently, motionlessly, eyes blinking slowly before Father Thomas finally placed the glistening goblet into my waiting palm. I turned away and strode from the room, the small priest scurrying after me, short legs unable to compete with my far longer ones. This time, I folded my wings away, saving the scrapes against the tops of them and future discomfort to the sensitive appendages.

“That’s a hell of a responsibility to know when someone will die,” the priest said behind me, his response to my earlier statement barely legible beneath gasped breaths of exertion.

“It is, but it’s a burden I carry with pride. It’s my purpose, handed to me by my Father,” I said reverently.

I strode through the church and its attendant worshippers silently, purposefully, with Father Thomas by my side and chatting quite incessantly. I did not speak and the priest seemed not to require it, chatting on as though we were old friends. The small human, I had to admit, amused me and I graced him with more than one amused smile which seemed to please him. By the look on his face, it seemed as though to make an angel smile, even the Angel of Death like me, was a good thing, an honorable thing, a thing of Grace to be attained and strived for.

I wondered if I was perhaps the first angel he’d ever met and how he would fare against Gabriel. Everyone liked Gabriel, the most gentle and loving of all of us. I remembered my brother with love and pride and wished for the old times again, when things had been simpler.

I strode out of the dusty church’s narthex, back into the dusty outside air. The heat seemed to bother the priest beside me, sweat pouring from his partially bald head and into his squinting, shielded eyes. He sighed and struggled to keep up with me. The sun had long ceased to bother me, and paled in comparison to early suns in Jerusalem, that hotbed of arid heat during Christ’s time. I was there too when he’d been crucified, another memory that would always stay within my celestial consciousness.

I sighed, genuinely saddened by the cruelties perpetuated by humanity upon each other, as I remembered war after war, genocide, plague, the Black Death of the fourteenth century - all because of humans. Much as I bowed down to them and served them as my Father had ordered all of the angels to do, sometimes I could see Lucifer’s point of view when he refused to serve no one other than God. Much maligned as Lucifer had since become, my brother had had a point.

I stopped before a door as dusty and more dingy than the church had been and I strode in unannounced, the door no barrier to Azrael. Nothing could keep the Angel of Death from your side when it was your time to be reaped and judged. There was a scurrying from inside the household, hurried footsteps attempting to flee or to fight - both would prove ineffectual against me.

I stopped, my greater height too large for the small inside of the house and I easily caught Father Abraham hiding in a bedroom closet. Father Thomas had followed me in, yet remained strangely quiet from the garrulous man of a few minutes before. I supposed that truth of my earlier statements were beginning to set in for him finally.

Father Abraham seemed to know who I was immediately, eyes wide and frightened, body tense and unforgiving beneath my hand as I dragged him bodily from the closet. I ordered Father Thomas to hold the other priest down. It seemed, at first as though Father Thomas would disobey, yet finally, he did as I had requested, apologizing to his fellow Father profusely for the inconvenience. I had to smile at the pious Father Thomas, God-fearing to the end, yet still I had a job to do.

I stopped to hold the Goblet of Purgatory to Father Abraham’s lips and watched as the priest gulped at the liquid inside, already filled from some celestial means that not even I fully understood. I felt the power of the Angel of Death course through me, punching into the Father’s frail body as the life leached from him. I saw his soul ascend and disappear, out of my hands and on into the cleansing depths of Purgatory.

I stepped away after first laying Father Abraham in state upon the floor, watching as Father Thomas performed the Last Rites over the recently deceased body of his comrade. I tucked the Goblet into a hidden pocket of my robe, glad to feel its familiar weight dragging against my shoulders.

I left the little house then, simply faded away as though I’d never been, leaving Father Thomas to his private and somewhat misguided grief over the recently departed Father Abraham. After all, I had other business to attend to, my existence filled with endless lives to usher on their collective ways.. An angel’s business was never finished, especially when you are an angel such as I.

~fini~


End file.
